


Fate and Circumstance

by thatrandomnpc



Series: MadaTobi Week 2018 [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Day 1, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 05:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15478239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatrandomnpc/pseuds/thatrandomnpc
Summary: Madara is young, but he knows his aunt well, “You let her go.”Her eyes turn toward Kosuke, but… he doesn’t think she’s actually seeing his youngest brother, now trying to catch minnows. “Uchiha have the capacity to love deeply, Madara,” she says, “For us, to harm one’s soulmate is… unthinkable.”(Madara may have been hoping for some way to end the fighting. What he got was a soulmate instead.)





	Fate and Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> MadaTobi week day 1! This is so exciting! Heads up, I'm posting this really quickly before I have a flight to catch; there may or may not be some typos laying around that I didn't catch, so I apologize for that in advance and will probably jump back and edit them later. 
> 
> Please do go check out all of the amazing MadaTobi week works here and over on Tumblr and give some love to everyone who is participating and especially raendown for organizing it! 
> 
> Forewarning for canon-typical violence, child soldiers, and canonical loss of siblings. (Also my typos. I feel like those deserve a warning.)

When Madara is young, he carries his aunt’s weapons back and forth from her favored training place. She’s a fully grown kunoichi and hardly needs the assistance, but she allows him anyway. Father doesn’t mind when it means that his heir is observing a powerful shinobi and building endurance by hefting half his weight in metal through the trail in the forest twice a day.

One evening, in the heat of summer, they stop at a creek hidden deep within their borders. Kosuke, barely old enough to accompany them, wades in the shallows, splashing at the minnows. Madara, at the wise old age of ten, is too old for such childish things and settles beside his aunt on a rock. Where her feet settle fully against the silt, Madara’s toes barely reach the water.

He only sees the dark edge because he’s busy frowning at his legs to encourage them to grow faster.

“Do you have a tattoo?” he asks, suddenly distracted from his dilemma.

She smiles and ruffles his hair in a way that means he’s said something foolish. He frowns at her, demanding an explanation.

She pulls up the leg of her pants over the swell of her calf. It’s a name, Madara realizes--a soulmark. _Sarutobi_ , he recognizes and… doesn’t understand. That clan sends aid to the Senju. His aunt is loyal to the Uchiha. She is proud of their clan. Yet Madara knows, even at this age, that the Uchiha are also fiercely proud of their soulmarks. They are a clan blessed by the gods, the elders say, because there are more Uchiha with soulmarks than any other clan in Fire Country. Uchiha love fiercely, mother has said with a fond smile, and the marks are considered just a touch below sacred.

So how can his aunt be fated to love someone like that, who is guilty of enabling Uchiha death?

He asks her as much.

She smiles sadly and allows the fabric to fall back over the mark. “I ambushed her once--running a convey to the Senju,” she admits.

Madara is young, but he knows his aunt well, “You let her go.”

Her eyes turn toward Kosuke, but… he doesn’t think she’s actually seeing his youngest brother, now trying to catch minnows. “Uchiha have the capacity to love deeply, Madara,” she says, “For us, to harm one’s soulmate is… unthinkable.”

Madara looks down at her calf and frowns dubiously with all of the wisdom of his ten years.

He enters the battlefield not long after that. He survives, walks home by his father’s side covered in the blood of someone’s son with the mother’s screams still ringing in his ears, and stands stock-still as father grips his shoulder and nods approvingly before he leaves to attend to business. A distant cousin entered the fray today, too, Madara knows.

He, unlike Madara, didn’t come home.

Madara enters a home that suddenly feels alien and foreign. _He’s not the same_ , he thinks, dazed and not quite there like he’s only really attached to his body by a thread. He flinches when Izuna throws his arms around him just inside the doorway. “Brother! You’re back!” Izuna cries. What he means is ‘ _You survived_.’

Then Izuna steps back, and the world muffles to nothing but a haze. His eyes burn with the need to blink, but he can’t tear them off the blood smeared on Izuna’s cheek. Not Izuna’s, a fuzzy part of his mind reminds him. Blood from Madara’s armor--the blood of someone else’s _sonbrotherfriend_ \--but...

It’s enough that the building nausea comes to fruition.

When the haze passes, he’s in mother’s arms, her fingers winding through his hair. She puts Kosuke to bed early and huddles around him with Izuna and the twins--meets father’s hard look with one of her own until he moves down the hall.

He loses his aunt in the next battle.

The twins are next, gone off proudly to their first battle to come home still and corpse-cold. Madara doesn’t remember carrying their bodies home, but Izuna tells him later, in short and wretched sentences, that he tried to stab anyone who’d attempted to take them from him before they arrived home.

(He _does_ remember mother’s shrieked sobs and pulling their youngest to his chest, hands coiled in Kosuke’s short hair to keep him from turning away and _seeing_ the waking hell that will forever be burned into Madara’s mind, even in less-than-perfect detail.)

When Kosuke dies, withered in bed from poison, mother dies with him in all the ways that matter. She’s still there physically, but Madara hopes desperately that, wherever her mind is trapped, it’s a place where she and her children are safe and happy.

He’s ashamed to know that he goes to the river that night because, just for a moment, the dawning reality of what life is for shinobi is so terrifying in its absolutes, that it shakes him to his very core. The wretched thought of _‘This is it. This is all there will ever be for us. This is all Izuna has to look forward to.’_ His people are a superstitious one, but he has never much prayed to the spirits some of his kin do.

He does now though. Anything, he begs from every god and goddess he can name, _anything_ to stop this because he’s heard the cries of grief and rage from the Senju and Uchiha, and he _can’t tell the difference anymore_.

By the time his mark comes--by the time he wears _Senju Tobirama_ wrapped around his wrist for the first time in the early hours of the morning--he’s tired. He goes to the river often now, when he isn’t fighting or pushing Izuna harder and harder because he’d failed three times now, and he’s so very certain that to fail again will be to _shatter completely_ and leave only a shell of himself behind. Then there’s that other boy, the one who’s infuriatingly good at skipping stones, and he wonders…

But this…

He’s been taught his entire life that the concept of _soulmate_ is all but sacred. And yet…

 _Senju Tobirama_.

For a moment, he considers covering it. A layer of bandages or pair of long gloves would hide it easily enough. Shoji has already given him his first chick from the aviary; no one would think twice of the addition of gloves.

As he rests, sleepless in bed, he stares at the roof and _thinks_.

The boy at the river. What had looked like the same hurts in his eyes. He knows that the lack of recognition means their clans are likely enemies of some sort. He’d insisted on avoiding family names for that alone, and yet…

Maybe he isn’t the only one who’s tired and shattered in so many ways.

Maybe the words on his wrist are the beginnings of what he’s hoped for, all those times he sat at the river. The mark isn’t an inevitability, but it does represent a _plausibility_.

In the end, he decides to take a chance.

  


Kawarama is not yet a month buried when Tobirama wakes in the middle of the night to a furious burn on across his wrist. He jars, grief-frayed mind expecting an attack, and jostles a groan from Itama on accident. Sensing has always come easily to him; fully awake now, he can feel nothing out of the ordinary.

_(Nothing other than the void where Kawarama’s chakra should be, relaxed and even in his sleep near Hashirama.)_

Mind sluggish from the fitful sleep he’s managed over the past several days, it takes longer than he’d admit to realize what’s happening.

He stares, uncomprehending at the elegant lines--a fine hand a calligraphy--emblazoning themselves across the skin on his inner wrist. He stares until the burning in his eyes forces him to blink. Itama is holding his forearm, calloused fingers small and light.

“ _Brother_ …” Itama breathes.

Tobirama forces his himself to turn from the fresh soulmark--from the name _Uchiha_ wrapped around his wrist like a shackle. Itama’s eyes are wide, concerned. Tobirama can’t fault him. So soon after Kawarama…

And now this.

Itama rises, mindful of waking Hashirama. If Tobirama’s sleep has been fitful, Hashirama’s has been virtually non-existent. Only now, after Itama and Tobirama have coaxed him into a training session, has he finally exhausted himself into a dreamless sleep. Better that than the nightmares. Hashirama may be stronger than father credits him with, but this level of extended exhaustion…

Burying Hashirama or Itama, too, would be…

Tobirama’s eyes fall back to the mark. The appearance of Hashirama’s mark had been a joyous occasion. Even father had been pleased with his oldest son for the first time in a very long time. Uzumaki was a good match.

Itama returns with a roll of bandages and slides back under the blankets. Gentle hands coax Tobirama’s arm out. Itama hesitates a moment, a question in his eyes. Tobirama knows what he means to ask. Hashirama isn’t ashamed of the mark written in precise script under his left collarbone. Part of Tobirama wants to scorch his own mark from his skin to never be forced to see the plausibility of that connection ever again. The other though…

The other part, he thinks, is shattered and broken and lying in the earth with his little brother.

_(Kawarama hated being alone--would sneak into one of their rooms more often than not. He’d stayed with Tobirama the night before he…)_

“Father can’t know,” Itama whispers, eyes watery, but so very concerned.

Tobirama knows. The mark means nothing beyond what its owners intend it to, but father…

Father would not understand. Not after mother, and certainly not after Kawarama. Not when he’s begun to push Itama and Hashirama in some vein attempt to model them into his image of a full-fledged shinobi. To make them survive, Tobirama knows, but…

He can’t agree with this. What father means to erase is Itama’s compassion and Hashirama’s hope.

Tobirama swallows past the sudden constriction of his throat and the wave of horror that threatens to make him physically ill as this new reality fully asserts itself. He feels like a traitor to Kawarama’s memory with the name _Uchiha_ branded across his skin.

Itama is watching him, concerned and frightened. Tobirama breathes deeply, nods, and offers his wrist.

Itama is efficient but clumsy. Tobirama softens some, realizing that his brother is more exhausted than he’d thought.

_(Tobirama’s fitful sleep has been more than either Itama or Hashirama. Yesterday, when he’d risen from bed, he’d wondered what sort of monster that makes him--that he feels hollowed out but cannot seem to weep.)_

Itama ties off the bandages and pats Tobirama’s wrist soothingly. When they lie back down, Tobirama resolutely tucks his arm under the blanket. He’ll think of an excuse tomorrow until he can find something proper and discrete to wear over it. He won’t be the only of his clan to hide his mark. Itama tucks against his side, forehead against Tobirama’s shoulder. His breathing evens, but his chakra swirls with concern.

“It only means what you make of it,” Itama reminds him.

“Thank you, little brother,” he whispers back. He threads his fingers through Itama’s hair like mother used to. By the time Itama finally falls asleep, the awkward angle has rendered Tobirama’s fingers numb, but he hardly cares.

Kawarama is less than a month dead, and Tobirama bears Uchiha Madara’s name on his wrist.

  


Madara refuses to cover the mark. He continues wearing his usual long sleeves, but he does nothing to actively hide it. To do so, he argues, is against everything he’s been taught of the Uchiha, regardless of whose name he wears. It becomes a constant argument with his father. While Izuna steps between them more than once, Madara knows where his brother stands on this.

Father sends him to the field to catch a courier rather than continue running missions as he had before the mark’s appearance. He says that being forced to take on his responsibilities as future clan head will put things in perspective. What he means to say is _‘Killing Senju will do you good, son.'_  The team he’s put in charge of isn’t pleased by the oversight, but Madara hardly spares a thought for their injured pride.

_(Some of the Uchiha whisper ‘child killers’ behind their backs. Killing on the battlefields is one thing, were a moment’s hesitation in the melee is the difference between life and death. Accepting missions specifically to assassinate the children of high-profile enemies…_

_That, Madara thinks, will be the first thing he changes when he’s clan head.)_

He scouts separately because he has enough trouble handling his temper these days.

He sees the signal--senses the flares of chakra--to say that they’ve smoked the currier out in Madara’s direction. Madara, in turn, places himself in the treetops to wait. A quick drop and a swift motion with a kunai is all he needs. Fast. Painless as possible.

He sees a flash of Senju armor and drops. The plan works perfectly right up until Madara’s senses register what he’s just pinned.

Madara... _hesitates_.

The courier is just a boy. Around the age the twins would be this year. Wide, terrified eyes stare up at him. The boy is crying. Too scared to even try to fight his way out. The mark on Madara’s arm seems to _itch_ like a brand.

The boy sucks in a shattered breath and looks up at the kunai looming over him.

He goes rigid as a board.

It’s not the kunai he’s looking at now, Madara realizes, but the mark.

“You…” the boy tries shakily, “You’re _Madara_.”

 _‘To harm one’s soulmate is… unthinkable'_   his aunt had said. His aunt, who technically _committed treason_ by letting her soulmate live.

This boy… he’s too young to have a soulmark, but…

“How do you know my name?” he demands, intentionally tightening his fingers on the kunai’s grip. It’s visible. The boy jerks hard, teary eyes clenched shut, only to peek open halfway when death doesn’t immediately follow.

The Senju takes a shuddering breath, swallows, and shakes his head. The tremors come faster now. Breaths louder. The boy is on the edge of visceral panic.

Well, _shit._

Any other response, Madara would’ve questioned. Senju aren’t like Uchiha: the marks mean less to them. He’s heard of Senju using them for manipulation. This though…

This is a boy defending someone he is willing to die for--defending Madara’s soulmate.

The rest of the squad is still behind them, but they’re approaching fast.

Madara allows himself a noise of frustration. He unlatches his hand from where he’s been using it to press the Senju to the ground and snatches the scroll from the boy’s side. Interesting, Madara notes, that it doesn’t draw nearly the same defensive instinct as the issue of Madara’s soulmate.

“Swear to me on his life that no Uchiha will die by your hand,” he demands.

The Senju’s mouth drops open, _“What?"_

Well, at least the boy has a spine under all that fear. “Swear it,” Madara growls. Less than a minute now, and the others will be within Sharingan range. They’ll know he has the brat pinned either way.

The boy flinches but stammers out _“I swear on brother’s name! ”_ almost like a reflex.

 _Brother_ roars on echo in Madara’s ears.

 _Good enough_.

“Hit me,” he snaps, “and run.”

A flash of mistrust. A moment of hesitation. Resolve, as the brat gets that this is his last chance. The trembling doesn’t truly stop, but the boy lurches up with surprising speed. It’s a solid punch. Madara rolls back on his heels on reflex. The Senju scrambles up to his feet and tears through the forest with death on his heels.

He picks himself up, brushing a finger across the blood from his busted lip. Chakra wrapped around a fist. Might’ve even broken something if the boy hadn’t been so panicked and depleted.

 _Brother_.

The seeds of suspicion catch ground in Madara’s mind. As the others land around him, he knows to ask would be to implicate himself. And yet…

“The boy,” Kenji, the squad’s usual leader, demands, “Did you kill him?”

Madara meets his Sharingan, calculating, with his own gaze. He holds up the Senju informant’s sealed scroll. “This was the priority,” he reprimands sharply, “The Senju escaped.”

 _“That boy_ , _”_ Kenji snarls, “was Butusma’s _son_.”

Madara ignores their malcontent on the return home by filing through the informant’s scroll. There’s enough that, had it reached Butsuma, the Uchiha would’ve lost several trade routes at worst. Supplies are more difficult for the Uchiha to gather than the Senju given their connection to the Uzumaki, and yet…

Father eyes Madara, calculating, before they even make a report.

Madara hardly thinks to consider it paranoia if there’s something to be suspicious about.

  


Tobirama has only just returned from a skirmish when he senses Itama’s fear and desperation. He reaches out and _feels_ the Uchiha closing in. Bright sparks of chakra. Adults chasing down a child. Father and Hashirama are too far behind.

Tobirama slings on armor, grabs a sword, and tears out of the compound.

There is no possible way to make it.

 _Itama is going to die_ , crashes through him like waves, _And he is going to_ feel _it._

 _Like Kawarama_.

Itama’s chakra stops moving--quivers in terror. An Uchiha is there. Tobirama stumbles as Itama’s fear threatens to knock him from his feet. A deep breath, and he forces himself to run _faster_.

 _Useless_. Hashirama will get there first, but Hashirama can’t sense Itama. Tobirama has no way to alert the others.

Itama’s terror spikes. Tobirama flinches and braces.

 _(Foolish_. _He isn’t the one_ dying, _alone and scared._ )

Surprise. Confusion. Anger. _Hope_.

Tobirama blinks. _Itama is not dead_. The Uchiha is… mocking him? Drawing this out?

Irrelevant. Heart pounding against his ribs, Tobirama _runs_.

A spike of chakra--Itama’s last reserves, then _Itama_ is running. The Uchiha doesn’t give chase.

Tobirama dares to hope. Can’t believe it, even when he sees Itama just within the border of Senju land. He’s battered and injured--exhausted of chakra and breathing quickly enough to be concerning. And yet…

And yet he’s solid as he collides with Tobirama, a cry of relief wretching from his shaking body.

And yet, those are Itama’s fingers clamped like vices into the fabric he can get at around Tobirama’s armor. Itama clinging to him, shaking and exhausted. _Itama’s_ breath hitching on tears of relief.

Itama is alive _._

Itama is _alive_ , and every horrible moment of hollowness Tobirama has felt since Kawarama’s death shatters into something wretched like splinters of cut glass in his chest.

Hashirama finds them there some time later. He vaguely hears Hashirama and father arguing. Father disapproves and leaves, some distant corner of his consciousness knows, but Tobirama...

For the first time since Kawarama, he weeps into his brother’s hair and thanks every spirit and deity he can name. Hashirama’s grip around them, when it comes, is as bruising as it is grounding. _He knows_ , Tobirama thinks dimly--knows exactly how close this was if only by Tobirama’s reaction.

There’s altogether too much armor in the way, but nothing has ever mattered less.

Hashirama carries Itama home on his back. Tobirama feels no shame for stealing glances at his remaining brothers simply to assure himself that they are whole. Hashirama tries a few feeble smiles but eventually abandons the attempt altogether in favor of some sort of grim determination.

That night, the three of them huddle together in Hashirama’s room. Itama, who hasn’t spoken since his return, looks to Tobirama with heavy consideration. Soft-spoken though it is, his declaration leaves the room deafening in its stillness.

“Your soulmate,” he says, “He let me go.”

Hashirama’s breath hitches.

Everything in Tobirama freezes.

“Tobirama?” Hashirama calls. Tobirama turns to their eldest even though his voice sounds far away and muffled. _An Uchiha_ \--Tajima’s _heir_ , he knows, because he had cautiously looked into the name on his wrist--allowed Itama to escape with his life. Tobirama doesn’t doubt Itama’s word, especially not when he’d sensed the truth-- _can still feel the nauseating stab of helplessness-_ -of how thoroughly Itama had been pinned in.

Hashirama’s wounded eyes draw him back by slow pieces.

 _Oh._ Tobirama glances at his wrist and the bandages that cover it, even now. Hashirama’s gaze follows. Slowly, the world still in a haze that _makes no sense_ , Tobirama unwinds the bandages and offers his wrist to his older brother, “Forgive me, brother.”

The noise Hashirama makes is startled, hurt, confused.

 _Hopeful_.

Awe-filled dark eyes look to Tobirama, _“I know him_. _”_

...Apparently Tobirama is not the only one who has been keeping secrets.

Itama confirms that the Madara Hashirama met at the river is the very same who spared his life. Tobirama falls back onto the bedding and _thinks_. Hashirama takes his arm in his hands and gently rewraps the bandages with that stubborn set on his jaw. He understands the necessity of keeping the mark hidden, but…

“One day,” Hashirama declares solemnly, “you won’t have to hide this. I swear it, Tobirama.”

For the first time that evening, warmth replaces the aftermath of the retching terror. He refrains from pointing out that a soulmark isn’t an inevitability--that, for all that he is irreparably in this Uchiha Madara’s debt, that alone is not a certainty hindered only by the circumstances of the conflict between their clans. There are so many factors involved, and yet…

Hashirama’s sincerity and optimism is a balm on Tobirama’s weary heart. It always has been. That a flicker of Hashirama’s determination is mirrored in the stubborn set of Itama’s jaw…

That an Uchiha heir would spare the life of a Senju child...

Tobirama dares to think about the possibility of a future he barely understands.

They sit vigil around Itama that night, Hashirama on one side and Tobirama on the other. Tobirama falls asleep, listening to the soft sound of Itama’s breathing, more grateful to a faceless Uchiha than he ever imagined possible.

  


The boy with the bowl cut is already at the river when Madara arrives. He sits solemnly, staring into the water, but his face lights up when Madara comes to stand next to him with a pebble in hand. The other boy scrambles up onto his feet, clears his throat, and wipes that ridiculous grin off of his face in favor of something far more serious.

He dips at the waist into a formal bow.

Madara, entirely off guard, opens his mouth to bark some joking taunt, but he’s too slow thinking of one.

 _“Thank you_ , _”_ the other boy says. Madara blinks, _‘for what? ’_ on the tip of his tongue. The boy stands back up, eyes watery in a way Madara doesn’t quite understand yet. He takes a steadying breath and explains “For saving my brother.”

_Oh._

This is…

The other boy--Butsuma’s _heir_ , judging by his age--looks at him as though Madara’s opinion of this blatant declaration of his identity means the world to him. They should… probably attempt to kill each other, and yet...

“I have no idea what you mean,” Madara says, intentionally devoid of tone.

The other boy--Hashirama he learns that day--grins. “My mistake,” he says lightly, clearly having taken the message. He turns back to the river and hums thoughtfully, then glances slyly at Madara from the corner of his eyes. “That’s fortunate really… I’m not sure I could allow my little brother to marry someone who can’t even skip a stone…”

Madara yells and proves him wrong because that sort of thing comes easy to him in the moment.

_(He doesn’t think about how Butsuma’s heir, knowing full well who he is now, jokes so casually about the bond between Madara and his younger brother. Hashirama is either the kindest person he knows or the most foolishly optimistic. And yet…_

_Madara, who insists on playing ignorant of their status as enemies and wears a Senju’s name openly on his wrist, is perhaps no better. He knows Hashirama looks at the mark more than a few a times that day and smiles softly each time.)_

They dream of something better on the riverbank--something more than the promise of violence and grief, of starvation and dwindling supplies and too many graves. They spar and push each other. Laugh and talk like comrades--like _children_ in the civilian villages.

Hashirama and their shared hope soothes something broken and shattered in Madara.

Hashirama is the one who first broaches the topic of their brothers. “We’ll need help,” he says, “We can force talks one day, but Tobirama says we need support. He’s right.”

It’s dangerous, but then… so is coming the closest they have since the time after Itama to admitting they’re both aware of their own treason. Madara can only imagine his own father’s reaction to such a thing--the sort of violence that would be turned toward Hashirama if Madara didn’t immediately and believably renounce him. Hashirama is strong (stronger than most of his clan already), but not that strong yet.

“My brother would never support this,” Madara admits, ignoring the twist of guilt and grief. Kosuke… Kosuke would have, and Izuna had never been able to deny their youngest brother anything.

That, however, is precisely the core of the problem, he thinks.

“If you’re serious about this,” Madara says carefully, “I’ll see what I can manage.”

Hashirama frowns. It’s not a frequent thing--reserved mainly to those few topics that accidentally strike at a shared core of grief between them--but it’s tinted with a very real concern. Ditzy though the other boy may act, he isn’t a fool. They both know they’re risking each other, anyone they bring into the fold, and the fragile respite they’ve created on the banks of the river.

Hashirama’s fists curl in the fabric of his hakama, feet still dangling from the cliffside. His jaw is set as he looks out over the land they’ve dreamed of as theirs, “It must start somewhere.”

Madara’s thumb brushes lazily across the mark on his wrist. _Somewhere indeed_.

Hashirama’s brothers take little convincing apparently, but Madara knows Hashirama well enough to read between the lines now. He suspects that they agree if only ensure their eldest isn’t playing directly into a trap from an Uchiha. But then… apparently Hashirama has been tentatively consulting Madara’s supposedly “genius” soulmate for a while now.

In the end, it’s Hikaku who comes to him one evening. They say little, but Hikaku, for as young as he is, isn’t much one for extraneous words. When he notices Madara’s eyes fall onto the familiar characters spelling out _Senju_ on the back of his wrist, however…

Madara smirks, and Hikaku smiles back.

For all the scenarios _(fears)_ he’s imagined, meeting his Senju soulmate is, in a way, a rather anticlimactic affair on a warm spring afternoon. Hikaku is nervous, not that he seems as much, given the way he sits solemnly by Madara’s side as Hashirama and his brothers approach from their side of the river.

It strikes him that his closest friend and his soulmates are all but polar opposites in everything from coloration to demeanor--at least on first glance. If Hashirama and Tobirama are the extremes, Itama is the blend of them. The boy swallows as he locks eyes on Madara. Tobirama presses a hand against Itama’s shoulder and leans to murmur something in his ear, eyes never leaving the two Uchiha.

They’re red, Madara realizes as the trio stops in front of them. Just a few shades off of the color of a Sharingan.

The whole thing has a far more formal air to it. Deserved, of course, considering they’re technically conspiring against the wishes of their clan heads in a way that cannot be denied if they’re caught. And yet…

Tobirama breaks the silence with an irritable, “Chose a different meeting location.”

Madara blinks, entirely put off guard, “Excuse me?”

The fair-haired boy scowls, folding his arms against his chest. It would almost look fiersome… if he weren’t on the awkward, short side of a growth spurt. “You’ve met in the same location for _three months_ ,” Tobirama says, spreading his disapproval across both Hashirama and Madara.

Hikaku makes a choked noise. Madara isn’t sure if it’s because he’s suddenly very aware of the potential danger from the oversight or the absurdity of watching the clan heir be scolded by his unimpressed Senju soulmate, who has yet to actually catch up to Madara in size. He tends to assume the latter, given that they’re all but numb to the concept of danger to themselves.

“No one followed us,” Madara counters, “I would know.”

“And when someone does?” Tobirama snaps, “Do either of you have a plan to warn the other of an ambush _before_ you arrive here?”

Hashirama is wincing, Hikaku’s brows are near his hairline, and Itama is clearly biting his lip.

Hashirama lifts his hands in a placating gestures, “Tobirama, we shouldn’t--”

“You’re a sensor?” Madara snaps. That quiets Hashirama, who looks on confused. Tobirama’s eyes narrow warily, red gaze shifting briefly to Hashirama, who flushes and has the decency to look ashamed. Severs the bastard right for bragging on his damn brothers so often. “So am I. We’ll warn each other.”

That is apparently acceptable. The topics shift quickly from the finer details of their escape plans to how, exactly, they intend to join their two clans. Madara intentionally limits his focus to the topic at hand, but he cannot entirely stop his own curiosity dragging his attention back to the boy who apparently has the potential to grow into someone very dear to him. Hashirama hadn’t been exaggerating, he realizes: the brat is sharp and adaptable. Infuriatingly stubborn. Arrogant and proud.

It amuses Madara to no end that his is not the only attention that drifts from the topic of uniting their clans.

When the day is finished, however, it is the two younger Senju who linger. Itama chews at his lip and glances up at his older brother. Tobirama intentionally meets his eyes, “Thank you for sparing Itama.”

The difference in phrasing is interesting. Hashirama’s gratitude had been in the form of ignoring the threat that Madara had posed to his younger brother--that it was a stroke of fortune or fate that stayed his hand that day. Tobirama, as he has realized already, is very much the realist to Hashirama’s optimist.

Itama nods tensely, more quiet than he has been all evening. “I’ll keep my word,” he says softly, “But I won’t stand by if means losing Tobirama and Hashirama.”

Tobirama frowns suspiciously. Apparently he hasn’t the slightest idea what Itama is referring to. Also interesting. Clearly the younger Senju has devoted more than a little thought to this.

“If you want to be grateful, remember that Izuna is brat, but he’s my brat,” Madara dismisses. After all, given what his father has had to say thus far, it won’t be long before the clan heirs are pushed toward one another on the battlefield proper. It’s expected. Izuna will defend Madara with his life no matter Madara’s thoughts on the matter, and he has no doubt that Hashirama’s brothers will do the same for him.

Tobirama frowns. The terse, acknowledging nod is… more than a little surprising. “Leave my brothers alone, and I will do the same,” he agrees.

Hikaku breathes a bone-deep sigh of relief when the Senju brothers leave. Madara expects a quiet, reflective walk home. Instead, Hikaku frowns and kicks absently at a rock, “You know he’s going to be taller than you, right?”

He may be trusting his cousin with something incredibly precious, but Madara feels no guilt for pushing the boy into the river for sheer spite.

Izuna watches them suspiciously when they return.

Madara attempts to fight the instinctive stab of guilt with the reminder that he’s doing this for Izuna.

  


Butsuma orders Tobirama to follow Hashirama only once.

Tobirama gives his brother the signal and sends a coded warning to Madara. The Uchiha’s sensory range is smaller than Tobirama’s, but they’ve carefully measured the distance they can each cover for such an eventuality. That evening is an uneventful and quiet one that Tobirama spends at the riverbank with Itama.

“Your soulmate…” Itama says, sharpening another dulled kunai, “He isn’t the worst. For an Uchiha.”

Tobirama snorts and brushes a careful stroke over the pattern of seals he’s been painstakingly painting for days now. He intends to have mastered this one by the time Mito returns for her next visit. She’s promised to teach him more if he does. He thinks that, in return, he will offer to teach her the suiton jutsu that she asked about last time, now that he’s perfected it. “He’s arrogant, loud, and altogether too invested in skipping rocks,” he half-heartedly counters.

Itama laughs as though Tobirama had been joking about any of his complaints, “Probably. Just a thought.”

Tobirama narrows his eyes at his younger brother. Clearly he has spent far too much time with Hashirama as of late. And yet…

Itama is calmer in a way Tobirama barely remembers. They’re so close in age, it’s difficult for him to recall what Itama was like before they were both old enough to join the fray. Kawarama had been prone to bouts of excitement and emotion, but Itama had been plagued by doubt and anger for as long as Tobirama could remember. Anger, he knows, that had been so at odds with his little brother’s soft heart that it had threatened to break something in him.

This side of Itama…

He is inexplicably grateful to have the chance to know it again.

His fingers brush absently against the bandages around his wrist.

Unsurprisingly, Madara is nothing if not perceptive. Soon after Tobirama is forced to delay a meeting, Madara is forced to do the same. Not long after Hashirama and Madara finally meet across the battlefield. Izuna rushes to his brother’s aid, and Tobirama predictably counters him, trusting Itama to Touka. He has the span of a heartbeat to meet Madara’s eyes across the field. Not long enough to relay a message.

Madara’s chakra is erratic when Tobirama and Izuna’s blades cross. He’s so distracted, he nearly runs straight into one of Hashirama’s branches. Tobirama does not risk frowning, but he does pointedly grip his marked wrist when bracing against Izuna’s next attack. A silent sign that he has not forgotten their agreement or Madara’s mercy so easily.

The fight isn’t easy. Izuna is fast, crafty, and aims to kill with a personal sort of venom in attacks. Tobirama holds him off until the retreat is called.

The exhausting pattern repeats: days spent in shifting locations, building plans and a future, instersuprced with days filled with blood, grief, and hardship. As Hashirama and Madara grow more and more powerful, they naturally gravitate toward each other on the battlefield rather than unleashing their destructive capabilities on the opposing clans. Izuna predictably attempts to throw the fight in Madara’s favor, and Tobirama predictably matches him instead. Father isn’t pleased about Hashirama’s restraint, but he says nothing considering the devastation an unchecked Madara poses the potential of unleashing.

Tobirama no longer thinks to be suspicious when Madara lingers after one of their meetings. Itama and Hikaku are busy teasing Hashirama about a characteristically absurd jutsu name, while Hashirama sulks on the other side of the river. He assumes this is about another disagreement that will end in yet another round of bickering.

What confuses him is that Madara does not quite meet his eyes. He’s halfway through asking what Madara wanted when something is shoved at his chest. He grabs the offending object-- _scroll_ , he thinks--on instinct and frowns his silent demand for an explanation.

“You’re insufferable,” Madara says, eyeing something at the treeline with a faint pang of red across his cheeks, “No one your age should enjoy treatise on economics.”

By the time Tobirama pulls the cloth cover from the scroll to glance over the contents, the Uchiha are gone. Hashirama rests his chin on Tobirama’s shoulder, shameless about his nosiness. Even Itama has shuffled in against his side to look over the scroll. Myths and stories, Tobirama realizes. An area of interest, of course, but one that is below secondary on Tobirama’s current list of life-or-death priorities. He frowns, entirely confused now.

“What was the point of this?” he asks. Hashirama is, after all, the expert on translating Madara’s more erratic moods.

“Oh,” Itama says. He bites back a smile, mischief in his eyes. “You mean you don’t know?”

Tobirama scowls. Why would he ask if he did? It is Hashirama’s insufferably smug tone that ends the conversation. “Happy birthday, little brother,” he laughs.

 _Oh_.

Tobirama clears his throat and deftly tucks away the scroll-- _gift_. Before either of his brothers can continue this charade, he pointedly marches home. It hardly stops the two of them, who only cease teasing him for fear of someone asking questions none of them have a desire to answer. He, after all, is much more discreet when he passes on the leather glove he’d found in a civilian village specializing in bird training.

It doesn’t escape Hashirama, who is insufferably but at least polite enough to be mostly quiet about it. Tobirama expects that Itama has a hand in that, considering his younger brother’s unnecessarily encouraging smile.

He does, however, gain a small collection of gifts that he keeps tucked away for some day later in the future.

Years into the cycle, when Tobirama walks into a civilian village for an assassination contract, he does not immediately leave when he spots a head of familiar, unruly black hair. Instead, he spreads his senses out and notes the lack of developed chakra coils in rest of the village. The pause is long enough that Madara meets his eyes across the bustle of the small market crowd. A dark brow raises curiously.

Both of them are dressed as civilians, lacking both crests and armor. Newcomers are not uncommon of the celebration intended to take place that night. No one thinks twice when Tobirama follows Madara into a quiet corner of the local inn.

“Are there others with you?” Madara asks.

Tobirama shakes his head, “And you?”

“No,” Madara confirms, all but rolling his eyes, “Akiyama hired a Senju, too?”

Tobirama raises a brow. “You must be joking.”

“It seems someone intends to take advantage of us,” Madara muses. The lightness of his tone contradicts the promise of violence in his eyes. Regardless of what they plan on the riverside, Madara is a ruthless creature. Tobirama would almost admire that if it were not coupled with his often infuriating stubbornness. “He promised your clan a trade contact with Water?”

It’s fortunate then, that their clans incidentally chose to send two of the few who would bother to speak first rather than attempt to kill each other on sight. “I would be curious to know what he sought to achieve with this farce,” Tobirama replies, tone intentionally bland.

Madara’s smile is not a pleasant one. Too many teeth.

They wait until the afternoon to ambush their client. Madara, with his fearsome eyes’ reputation, is the one initially approach, while Tobirama dispatches the bodyguards standing outside perches in the shadows within hearing range.

“Curious,” he hears Madara comments, “I was unaware Senju were of interest to you.”

To his credit, Akiyama is steady under pressure. There’s hardly a tell in his voice when he replies, “Tanaka must’ve hired some extra protection.”

Madara hums. Tobirama hears his bare feet step towards the end of the room closest to the window, where Tobirama waits. “Strange, then, that he said _you_ hired him.”

Tobirama cannot read civilians well. Too little chakra. He’s too far away to pick out any miniscule reactions. He does, however, hear the slightest hesitation in the merchant's voice this time. “Surely you shinobi know people will say anything under enough duress.”

“The Shargian can cast the ultimate genjutsu, you understand,” Madara continues, voice all but a purr, “The technique is limited only by its user’s imagination. I’m _certain_ he was perfectly honest when I asked.”

Tobirama all but rolls his eyes. Evidently Madara’s penchant for theatrics isn’t simply confined to his down time. He hears a shift--suspects that Akiyama is up on his feet now. Another rustle. His bodyguards are not pleased with the obvious threat. Tobirama finishes disarming the poor imitation of a shinobi’s trap on the window. He suspects that the tag nearby wouldn’t even explode if the trap were triggered.

“Listen, Uchiha,” Akiyama tries again, “You can hardly fault me for needing results. This is my life’s work.”

Tobirama determines that moment is the proper one to slip in through the window. Madara’s lips curl into a pleased smirk while Tobirama swiftly incapacitates the remaining two bodyguards before Akiyama even realizes that he’s inside.

“If that were true,” he says, unimpressed, “you would have requested two shinobi from the same clan.”

The calm act dissolves when Akiyama yelps and whirls to face Tobirama, only to realize he’s backpedaled toward Madara. “I suggest you think of a _very_ good explanation,” Madara says. His eyes spin, bleeding into the pattern of a Sharingan. Tobirama waits, biding his time by shifting through the records on the desk. Nothing of note. Only maps, invoices, and the like. Nothing there appears to be out of the ordinary.

He hears a _thump_ as Akiyama collapses.

“I hope you dealt with that accordingly,” he points out absently. The threat something like this poses to exposing them is more than Tobirama is willing to allow. Frankly, he’s surprised the man is still breathing. Madara’s ruthlessness is often on par with Tobirama’s.

Madara wants something from him.

“I’m not the one who jumped through the window,” Madara counters. He sounds irritable, but there’s a tasing edge to his tone. When Tobirama doesn’t answer, he approaches to glance through the last of the documents himself. “Don’t bother concerning yourself with him. When he wakes up, he’ll assume you were merely a henged clone and that he’s lucky to have escaped with his life.”

Good enough, Tobirama supposes. “Father won’t be pleased to have lost the contract.”

He sees enough of Madara’s profile in his periphery to know that he wears that odd, tight expression. Tobirama has yet to entirely puzzle that one out yet. “Tell him enough of the truth to satisfy him,” he says, “You saw me and retreated for support.”

Tobirama has already worked that much out on his own. He places the last of the records back on the desk. “What did he want?” Tobirama asks, nodding to Akiyama.

“The Sharingan,” Madara replies, disturbingly matter-of-fact.

Tobirama’s gaze snaps up from the pages to meet Madara’s. “ _What?_ ” He’s aware that kekkei genkai hunter exist. They are hardly ever a concern of the Senju, however, considering that Tobirama’s clan is renown for its diverse talents rather than a single, precisely honed bloodline. The closest they have come is the disturbing interest in Hashirama’s mokuton, but Hashirama is now by far powerful enough to deter most interest in such things. “He assumed I would kill you and leave the body.”

Madara tilts his head toward the tea kettle, presumably still warm, and the two cups nearby. “I assume he planned to give you an edge.”

Senju do not steal Sharingan. It isn’t a matter or respect for most of the clan but rather one of pride or fear. Those like Butsuma would rather die than rely on an Uchiha’s stolen power while others are deterred by the fact that the Sharingan is a symbol of fear for the Senju clan. Tobirama still feels his heart pound traitorously against his ribs when he meets those red eyes, even if they belong to Hikaku or Madara in one of their spars.

Clearly Akiyama has somehow noticed the trend.

“He could never use it,” Tobirama says, rather than air how disconcerting he finds this, “Surely he understands that.”

“He was the middle man for someone else,” Madara says, even though the signs of rage are clear, “Don’t look so surprised, Senju. This isn’t the first time someone has attempted to steal the Sharingan.”

“Distasteful,” Tobirama mutters, scowling at the unconscious man, “I assume you’ve left him alive to track his contact?”

Madara hums a confirmation, but he seems inexplicably more interested in Tobirama at the moment. Tobirama frowns back suspiciously, now all too familiar with the sort of chaos that degree of consideration in Madara promises.

“Stay,” the Uchiha abruptly requests.

For the second time in ten minutes, Tobirama is left staring, uncomprehending, “ _What?_ ”

Madara doesn’t flush the way he does when he’s embarrassed that Hashirama has won one of their competitions. The Uchiha is notoriously vocal, but he rarely says things he doesn’t mean unless he’s flustered. Tobirama, who is not entirely different in that regard, appreciates that, even if it does catch both of them off guard on occasion.

This time, at least, Madara has the decency to seem vaguely embarrassed. The situation is more absurd that Tobirama is willing to admit: that Madara shifts his feet and glances at the ceiling of a home belonging to a man that the pair of teenage shinobi just knocked unconscious, who originally hired them for an assassination contract with the hopes of stealing Madara’s formidable eyes.

“Part of his contract was that no one in this village was to know I was a shinobi,” Madara explains, “Civilians won’t know who we are outside of Fire Country.”

Tobirama, as Itama often reminds him, finds shame and embarrassment fairly foreign concepts. Rather, he stares incredulously and carefully, tonelessly confirms, “You’re suggesting we assume these people will stay unconscious long enough to attend a festival and _hope_ that we won’t be recognized?”

Madara scowls, clearly insulted, “I would hardly suggest it if it were that careless.”

Admittedly, Madara would know exactly how long his genjutsu should last, and a civilian would have virtually on chance of waking prematurely. The guards will be unconscious for at least another several hours, and Tobirama knows for a fact that they are the only shinobi for miles. And yet…

There is tension in Madara’s jaw. He’s well aware of how odd the request must seem.

Tobirama catches Madara brushing his thumb absently over the mark on his wrist. He’s never entirely understood how the Uchiha manages to wear Tobirama’s name so openly, even among his kin. The past several years, it… never entirely fails to inspire some tug of foolish pride in chest.

He purposefully meets the Uchiha’s eyes, disapproving scowl still firmly in place. “Two hours. Any later and father wouldn’t believe me,” he agrees, “Use a henge.”

They tie up the Akiyama and his guards just as a precaution (and perhaps a hint of petty spite). Their civilian clothes are sufficient to blend in. A thrill of adrenaline rushes through Tobirama as they step calmly into the throng of festival-goers without event. Regardless of their slightly altered appearances, the idea itself is something akin to a taboo when not confined to the isolated areas where they meet in the company of the others.

Madara, it seems, has a taste for sweets. He buys some from a older woman, who smiles kindly at the pair of them, mistaking them for civilian teenagers. Tobirama follows at his side like a ghost, the entire affair so foreign to everything that he knows that he strangely feels himself bracing for a fight.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” Madara asks. Tobirama wants to bristle, but his tone is neutral, and his eyes are… surprisingly soft. “I take Izuna when we have the chance.”

“Once,” Tobirama admits sourly, “Hashirama and Touka tricked Itama and I into believing we were guarding one of the attendees.”

Madara laughs. Tobirama blinks, unused to the lighter air of the sound without the usual layer of bitterness under it. “Did they tell you eating sweets helped you blend in?”

Tobirama’s scowl deepens, “You used a similar tactic with Izuna?”

Madara scoffs and takes another bite of his treat. “Izuna is not nearly as composed and dignified as he would have you believe.”

Tobirama does not… know what to think of that. The Izuna he has stitched together from Madara’s occasional comments is a very different person than the one who crosses blades with Tobirama on the battlefield. He blinks when one of Madara’s sweets is suddenly waved in front of his face, “Stop scowling. You’re the one who didn’t want to draw attention.”

Tobirama snatches the food if only because he has a tendency to forget to eat when long, solo travels meant turning to his own thoughts. He has a long trip ahead of him later than night, after all.

Overall, the experience is not entirely unpleasant. Madara amuses himself by playing his role, and Tobirama follows quietly with him, not entirely sure of what he’s meant to be doing. In the end, they perch in the trees, dropping the henges, watching the crowd shuffle around carelessly below. There are no guards. The festival goers are loud and cheerful. This far away, the music is quiet enough to be pleasantly dull rather than loud enough to cover up the subtle noises shinobi take as cues. Foolish, really, how unconcerned they are.

Tobirama frowns, something odd sitting in the pit of his stomach as he stands, chakra absently channeling to the bottoms of his feet.

He intentionally doesn’t startle when Madara catches his wrist. He swallows hard, glancing down at the sight of the Uchiha’s thumb resting against his own name on Tobirama’s exposed wrist. He’d uncovered it for the sake of the disguise but now…

Dark eyes watch him with a purposeful sense of gravity. “This,” Madara says, tipping his head toward the civilians, “is what I want for my people.”

There is something else there, Tobirama knows, but he does not know how to read it yet. Looking back at the crowd, he thinks of Hashirama, older and happier, thriving a place like this. He can imagine Itama without the weight of daily dread of treating the injured and grieving those he couldn’t save. And Tobirama…

It would be worth their happiness, even if he suspects he would have even less idea what to do with that than he did with this.

He swallows and nods, adding on, “The village will have a more villgient guard.”

A soft huff from Madara, “Naturally.” The humor slides from his face as his hand slides from Tobirama’s wrist. His eyes turn back to the civilians. “Some other time, Senju,” he says.

It sounds like a promise. “Until then, Uchiha.”

Perhaps it's sentimentality, but he waits to cover his mark until he’s close enough to the compound to sense his cousins on guard duty.

That night, he dreams of a day when Hashirama makes good on his promise. When he can stand next to his Uchiha soulmate without consequence and decide exactly what they want that connection to mean.

  


The day Tajima and Butsuma strike each other down, Madara calls a retreat. He hears Hashirama do the same across the field. Whatever his conflicts with his father, Madara loves his family dearly, and he takes no joy in this. Thoughts of the village and the future are far from his mind as the old, familiar grief clouds his thoughts.

The next days are solemn. The clan braces against the uncertainty of falling fully under new leadership. Madara is powerful, they know, and has been slowly amassing duties for years, but Tajima had lived much longer than any other clan head in recent history. Any significant change is cause for concern these days.

Izuna finally confronts him days after the funeral.

They’re alone in a quiet home with the ghosts of their parents and brothers hidden in the untouched corners of the house. Izuna sits quietly. Holds his spine straight and tall. “You and Hikaku,” he says softly. There is anger in his voice though. Hurt. Confusion. It tugs at the long-standing guilt he keeps buried in his chest. “You’ve been meeting with Senju.”

Madara doesn’t deny it. Izuna’s hands curl tight in the fabric of his pants. “You never said anything to father,” he points out.

“You never gave me any proof at first,” Izuna counters furiously.

Madara raises a brow at the phrasing, but grief has dulled his temper, and guilt crushes his inclination to tease his brother. He has not enjoyed keeping secrets from Izuna, but it was necessary. “And later?”

The bitterness of Izuna’s smile very nearly overshadows the fondness there, “I’d rather not be the reason you were exiled.” Madara… is not certain it would’ve come to that. With father now gone, he susposes he will never know. “This is about your soulmate?”

Madara shakes his head with absolute sincerity. The mark had been a fortunate catalyst, but that had never been the end goal. “This is about protecting you,” he admits. Izuna is startled into silence. His hands finally unclench, and Madara takes advantage of the hesitation. “I wanted you to have more than this. A future. Children, if you wanted them, who we wouldn’t be forced to send to war and an early grave.”

“You can’t trust them,” Izuna seethes. The venom is muted. Madara can’t tell if it’s grief that does it or weariness.

Madara feels the corners of his lips pull into a tired smile, “Then I suppose you’ll have to attend the peace talks to prevent your bumbling brother from doing something foolish.”

Izuna sighs heavily. The anger still boils visibly in his expression, but it’s also pulled tight with conflict and edges of his own grief. His eyes shift to the battered kunai sitting near the window, where Kosuke had left it so many years ago. Izuna swallows, shuts his eyes, and breathes the question, “Are you happy?”

Everything in Madara freezes in surprise that… in actuality, he suspects is undue. No matter their disagreements, he’s very much aware of Izuna’s love for him, as he is certain Izuna is sure of the same. Still… He smiles, tired but fond. “You sound odd when you imitate me,” he teases. The scowl he earns in return is tinted with a familiar pout. He takes that as definitive progress. “Father is dead, and this peace has come too late for the others,” he says more seriously, “I’m not happy, but we have the chance to be.”

Izuna nods. His suspicion and hurt haven’t waned, but consideration has taken root in his eyes. That, Madara thinks, is all that he can ask.

Izuna does attend the talks when they begin after two months of a formal cease-fire. Hikaku is well respected among the clan and manages to quell the outbreak of infighting before it can become a major issue. To Madara’s great surprise, the clan is suspicious but far more quiet than he anticipated. Some are vocal in their protest but most…

Most are just weary.

Within the year, he stands on the cliff, overlooking the admittedly shabby beginnings of what he’d dreamt of as a child. For now, the Uchiha and Senju keep mostly to themselves, using several of the smaller clan who’d unexpectedly joined as the middlemen, but there have been few open incidents thus far. There are still issues to fill--arguments yet to have--but tonight the Inuzuka and Hatake have conspired to rope a few others into music and celebration for receiving formal recognition from the Daimyo.

He senses Tobirama’s arrival before he hears the soft touch of sandles against stone. “You understand that you’ll be expected to put in an appearance,” the Senju says.

Madara raises a brow as Tobirama moves to stand next to him. Already, the sun is beginning to set. He watches the crackle of a firework go off hours ahead of schedule, followed by a yelp that echos below. On a whim, he activates his Sharingan if only to determine which of the group of gangly teenagers he needs to intimidate later. “You climbed a mountain to tell me that?”

There is an uncharacteristic absence of some sarcastic comment in return. Madara glances at the Senju, picking out the miniscule signs of discomfort. He knows what the Shargian represents to Senju. He deactivates it, but not before he notices.

Both of Tobirama’s wrists are entirely uncovered.

Madara sees his own name brushed in familiar lines across the thin, pale skin. His gaze snaps up to Tobirama’s, a silent question there.

The bastard has the nerve to maintain proper decorum, even if it’s somewhat hindered by the way he clears his throat and pointedly looks down at the village at large. “I wondered,” he says, voice far less harsh than the tone he’d been doling orders out in just that afternoon, “if this would qualify as ‘some other time.’”

Madara has give the man this much: his memory is on par with an Uchiha’s. Either that, or that day they’d given into a whim and walked together as something other than enemies had left more of an impression than he’d thought. A combination, he suspects, delighted at the sight of the faint, embarrassed pink that emphasizes the red slash painted across Tobirama’s visible cheek.

“Izuna may attempt to strangle you,” he warns, not entirely joking.

Tobirama rolls his eyes, “If avoiding Izuna’s ire determined my actions, nothing would ever be done in this village.”

This time, when they walk through the festivities, there is no henge to disguise them. Tobirama is still obviously uncomfortable with the idea that no one has the outright intention of burying a blade in his back, but he is steadier now. More assured since the last full scale battle is nearly a year behind them.

The soulmark doesn’t represent an inevitably. When Tobirama says nothing as Madara curiously offers an arm to him, however, Madara considers it a possibility. Tobirama hesitates, his reserve breaking only fractions in surprise. Madara politely pretends not to notice the return of the hint of a flush or the way Tobirama pointedly focuses on the festivities. After all, his soulmate’s arm is warm around his, and Izuna’s chakra sparks, alive and well nearby.

He looks up at the fireworks crackle in the sky and thinks _maybe_.


End file.
